


The Dark of the Cold

by Moonrose91



Series: Three Hundred Years of Being Forgotten (Mostly) [16]
Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, Mention of Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-18
Updated: 2012-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-21 11:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/596978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moonrose91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pitch Black never thought he would hate being seen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark of the Cold

One of the most grating feelings in the world is being watched.

Pitch Black had, upon the realization that he was not believed in, thought he would never feel irritation with eyes upon his back.

This was not so.

The fact that this was a _child_ spirit just made it worse.

It was as if the Man in the Moon was taunting him and he shifted slightly so he could hide more in the shadows and out of the moonlight.

It did not rid himself of the irritating spirit and he glared at the village.

The village that symbolized his fall of power, but even they could not ignore the shadows in the trees.

He would rid himself of the village, eventually.

“Are you going to come out or am I going to have to drag you out?” Pitch hissed, though it had no real bite.

While he would not admit it, not in a thousand years, he was lonely.

And if the spirit was here, he might as well try to make conversation.

However, when the boy spirit didn’t answer, Pitch rolled his eyes and had his shadows yank the boy forward. There was a yelp, a shout of, ‘hey’ and then the Wind whipped through, lifting the boy out of his shadows and into the air.

Pitch was surprised when the boy, after hovering a bit in the air (Pitch watched him from the corner of his eye), landed rather close to Pitch.

Closer than anyone had gotten in a few centuries in any case.

Pitch turned his head and looked down at him.

The boy was small, really, and pale as death.

He reminded Pitch of children that had frozen to death and he barely managed to keep himself from flinching at the thought.

A winter spirit then. But not a snow bringer, not with the Wind whirling around him like that.

Pitch resisted the urge to bare his teeth at the irritating bite of cold.

Instead, he stared at this little snowflake and asked, “Who are you?”

The boy looked up at him, eyes flickering, wary.

Wary, but curious.

The curiosity was what made him stay.

He was tired as well, Pitch could tell by the way the boy leaned on his staff, though nonchalant and something that was obviously a normal position for him, it was heavy. He was tired, as if he was doing too much too often.

“Jack Frost,” he responded, fearlessly.

Pitch stared at him.

Jack Frost?

He had heard that name…somewhere. A whisper, or something.

A very irritated whisper.

“Spirit of Winter? Bringer of Winter? Winter Shepherd?” the boy questioned and it clicks in Pitch’s brain.

The irritated whisper mentioned the newest Winter Spirit with a shepherd’s crook.

Winter Shepherd was rather fitting, actually.

“Oh. I’ve heard whisperings of you. I didn’t know you actually existed, considering we had just gotten a new one half a century ago,” Pitch retorted and turned his gaze to the village.

The previous one hadn’t even lasted a century?

Pathetic.

Probably for the best. The boy never would have survived under that frozen claw.

“New one what?” the boy questioned and Pitch looked back, shocked.

They…they hadn’t _told_ him? Hadn’t told him about how Winter Spirits were created and how, if they gave up, let the cold of winter infect them without the balance of the joy the snow could bring, they became the very things they created?

They didn’t even _warn_ him?

Then again…he was rather cheerful. “What makes you think I’ll tell _you_?” Pitch asked, deciding to let Mother Nature and her Ladies take care of this.

So long as the world doesn’t tip out of balance, again, Pitch isn’t going to be the one to tell the boy he’s probably only on borrowed time till he succumbs to the chill of the very season he directs (and no wonder the boy is so tired; he’s been controlling, on his own, one of the most restless and dangerous seasons, and he’s not even an _adult_! What on _Earth_ was Mother Nature _thinking_ when she created him?) and turns to snow and frost.

“Nothing,” the boy admits and Pitch, internally, applauds his intelligence.

For such a baby spirit, he’s far wiser than those centuries older than him. “Why are you glaring at the village like it ripped out your heart?” the boy continued.

Perhaps he had been too hasty in his early judgment and he bared his teeth at the North Wind when it tried to get between him and Jack.

He was _not_ having that bitter traveler interfering with him _today_.

“That is entirely impossible,” Pitch responded.

He’d have to have one for it to be ripped out.

“Why? Because you don’t have one?” the boy asks and Pitch stares at him in surprise before he remembered himself and forced his face into neutrality, though he was still nearly flattened with his surprise.

The majority of it comes from the fact that the child voiced what he had been thinking.

The other part comes from the fact he said it to _his face_.

And not in a harsh way, just a teasing way.

“Do you know who I am?” Pitch asked.

“I have ten years of memories. What do you think?” Jack responded and Pitch let out a soft sigh.

Jack Frost really _is_ a baby spirit, isn’t he?

Ten years old and managing to keep the world in balance.

And with no helpers, from the looks of it.

For some reason, that angered Pitch.

Angered him in a way that Pitch had not felt for many years.

“Wonderful. I’ve even fallen out of fellow spirits memories. I’m Pitch Black, the Boogeyman,”he explained, though he knew his fury came through his voice.

He honestly did not care right now.

The boy considers him briefly and then looks out to the village, leaning on his staff.

Yes, the boy is tired.

He’s also completely naïve and ignorant and he’ll be running from the Boogeyman in time.

But for now, he seems content to just be there and Pitch isn’t going to kick him over any abyss. “So…that was the first village to walk through you?” Jack asked and Pitch started back, shocking reaching his marrow.

How on _earth_ had the boy deduced that?

Had his shadows been spotted?

No, he would have known, just like Sandman had known whenever Pitch tried to touch the golden sand (and that had not been a fun experience to say the least). But the boy is also tensing now. He’s curling and Pitch lets words fly.

“Oh, joy. Someone _else_ to rub that fact into my face.”

The laughter is unexpected and it…once again, it is not harsh, or cruel. It is light and teasing, as if Jack thought he had told a joke.

He scowls at the boy anyway.

There are worse spirits out there than him (so much worse, ones who have not been spoken of in an age, who would be more than happy to rip the boy apart, if they had the courage to try and incur Mother Nature’s wrath). “No, not at all,” Jack protested, though Pitch kept the scowl firmly in place.

“Just saying that glaring at the village won’t change anything. And neither will shouting at it, or haunting it or throwing snowballs into people’s faces, though that last one is rather fun,” the boy continued and Pitch felt floored.

Was the boy… _comforting_ him?

Or attempting to at least?

Really, the child was horrendous at it.

“I know that. I have had far more experience with it then _you_ ,” Pitch snapped, though hiding his own laughter at the situation makes it come out like a growl.

This child, a babe really, is trying to comfort the big bad Boogeyman.

If he were on speaking terms with anyone, he would be telling this story for ages, just to see the horror struck look on their faces.

Because he knows.

He knows that he will be believed in again. Fear comes and goes.

He will take a new shape, a new name. Start over again.

It is just the _manner_ of it this time that makes him grit his teeth and take petty revenge on the village below.

The denouncing so thoroughly.

Fear is _needed_ , to keep the children safe.

If they went out on the ice without being careful, it could break under them and they could drown, and without that niggle of fear, there would be no believers _left_. Yes, he went overboard a few times.

He would admit to that, but only to himself, and only within his own mind.

He could no more help it than anyone else, because when he got the smallest taste of fear, it opened up the flood gates to the hissing voices, his tormentors. However, time had slowly quieted them and broke them down, leaving only Pitch, for the most part.

Looking down at the Winter Shepherd, who is leaning away from Pitch, he wonders what will become of the boy.

Pitch thinks he might actually be sad when this boy becomes the snow and frost he wields so easily now.

“Just saying, Boogeyman, you need to have a little fun, or you’ll fester and rot,” Jack stated and Pitch glared, having a shadow chase after the boy, but he’s up and away, the North Wind carrying him up, just out of the shadows reach if Pitch wanted to remain hidden from the Man in the Moon.

The boy has his staff gripped tight, but his other hand is behind his back, and Pitch glared more.

He wouldn’t.

“And, you know, the best way to have fun,” Jack began and Pitch felt his lip curl into a snarl.

“Don’t you dare Frost,” Pitch warned.

“Is to have a snowball fight,” Jack finished, as if Pitch hadn’t interrupted.

And then he’s throwing a snowball at him and Pitch easily dodges, having his shadows catch it flawlessly. Well, if that’s how the Winter Spirit wants to play…

He is surprised when a flurry of snowflakes hits him in the face, flickering about him. A warmth fills his chest (and it hurts, a little, as if it is something that he felt before, but had lost a long time ago) and he looked up to find Jack watching him hopefully.

Pitch smiled as the snowball Jack had thrown at him, and Pitch had dodged, hit the spirit in the face.

That was fun.

Pitch wondered how much more ammunition Jack would give him before the night was over.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this was part of a 'flip the view' thing.
> 
> Same scene, different perspectives.
> 
> Originally it was just supposed to be in Pitch's POV, but Jack's POV wrote itself first.
> 
> So I decided to do it this way instead.
> 
> I am a slave to my muses.


End file.
